


Tyger

by roxymissrose



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Implied Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Light Angst, M/M, Soulless Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-06
Updated: 2014-03-06
Packaged: 2018-01-14 21:10:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1278913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roxymissrose/pseuds/roxymissrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam without a soul preys on Dean's mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tyger

Dean thought he should have known this thing about Sam from the jump. Hell, there were clues dropping all over the fucking landscape like WB anvils. _'Just…shoulda known.'_ Dean wandered around the little room, poked at Sam's bag, his bedding, gulped whiskey from the full water glass he had clutched in his hand. He swallowed and his hand went tight around the cheap glass like he was trying to keep it from floating away. He turned from the bedding towards the kitchenette, stared at a huge, wrinkled plaid shirt draped over a chairback. "Fuck, Imma idiot."

Sam was the only person in the world that Dean knew as well as himself. How the hell did he miss it?

From behind the half-closed bathroom door, the shower ran steadily, spat and spattered with Sam's movement….

Dean sat on Sam's bed, swung his booted feet up on Sam's sheets and paused to take another deep, contemplative swallow. He closed his eyes and took time to feel the whiskey warm his throat, bloom in his chest. He inhaled, exhaled on a sigh. The Sam in his mind, the not-Sam, was smiling, smiling…eyes bright as polished pennies and just as cold. Full of nothing. And that was the tip-off. When Sam looked at Dean, there was nothing in his eyes.

_Well, no, that's not quite right,_ he thought. There was something there in Sam's eyes, all right. But it was…Dean wasn't exactly sure what it was… _Liar._ Dean was only sure that Sam's gaze was wrong. Not Sam at _all._ Dean scooted back until he hit the headboard, his boots leaving dusty streaks on the not-quite-white sheets. He rolled the thick rim of the glass against his lip, tapped it against his teeth. Thought about all the ways Sam was wrong, and how Dean should have caught it the second he put eyes on Sam.

It was…the way Sam broke into his life again. _That_ should have tipped Dean off right away but he'd just been so fucking glad to have Sam back. And Sam needed him, told him that, so he'd had to help, _had_ to leave. It was _Sam._ He'd…there was no choice, and he hadn't been happy about it, there hadn't been any relief in it.

"Fuck. Be honest for once," he whispered to the glass rolling between his palms. Okay, so totally honest? He'd been a little…not _glad_ to let Lisa go, no way he'd ever call it glad, but not…devastated. Sad, y'know, but not grieving the loss… Dean twisted his wandering thoughts back to his main point.

Sam. Because didn't everything come back to Sam, eventually?

He noticed things about Sam, the differences. The way Sam stood, the way Sam held himself was different now, the way Sam was…too comfortable. He sprawled when he sat, he took up _space._ Sam filled his skin to bursting with arrogant confidence and that was wrong, capital W wrong.

Dean knew Sam like the back of their hands. From the moment little Sammy got some height, he'd done everything he could to cancel it out, curled his pipe cleaner spine up like a caterpillar, right up 'til he left for Stanford and maybe after but Dean had to guess about that…shit, even now Sam tried to downplay his height a little. Well. Sammy, yeah, but not this guy. This guy didn't care. He wandered around with his head up and shoulders back, taller and bigger than anyone in the damn room. Fucking walked around without a shirt, the bastard, showing off muscle and skin, smelling like…fuck. Probably would wander naked if Dean didn’t make a fuss.

This guy ate everything without question, drank like he loved it, this guy fucked everything that gave him half an eye. _So wrong._ And so not Sam.

Then there was this other thing…this seriously weird, scary, thing.

Sam _stared._ Like, all the time, like right at Dean, right in his eyes, looked him up and down like Dean couldn't see it. Looked at him like he was lunch, for fuck's sake. Sam wasn't playing by the rules, and why the fuck not? They were simple fucking rules, god damn it. Simple as shit, right? Easy. No one looked each other in the eye unless death was imminent, either from the outside or from the inside, rule one. Rule two: you could look each other in the eye if you've just come back from Hell, if you've just come back to life, if you're about to throw a punch or stitch an eyebrow, even then, eye contact should be brief and impersonal as possible. Rule number three was You Just Don't Fucking Look—not at _anything_ and especially nothing below the collar bones unless there was fucking blood.

But this guy, this Sam clone, Sam-bot…his eyes crawled all over Dean and when Dean caught him out, he just smiled. Smiley son-of-a-bitch.

Dean sucked up a mouthful of booze and shuddered. Creepy.

"Gotta question, Dean—"

Choked pretty good on that mouthful of booze. Coughed whiskey out between his fingers and cursed the waste and cursed Sam who walked like a fucking ninja anymore. Dean blamed the empty glass, the heavy feeling in his head, the ringing in his ears, for not hearing his—Sam creep up behind him. Creepers creeped in a creepy way. He giggled softly to himself and heard Sam inhale, sharp and sudden, before a giant paw clamped down on his shoulder and tightened, turned him about to face Sam. Dean bit his tongue to keep from hissing—it hurt.

Half-naked, wrapped in a hand towel pretending to be a bath towel. Water still shining on his shoulders, tattoo clear and unbroken on his chest so Dean couldn't even blame the weird on possession….Dean rubbed his face and prayed for clarity. Sam said his name with a look in his eyes that made Dean's insides shiver tight with dread. "So ask," Dean muttered and felt like he had no other choice but to listen.

"Ever think about fucking me?" Sam asked it like they were talking about the weather or baseball or what to get for dinner.

"What the everlovin' _fuck?"_ That question was stupid, _crazy,_ made his insides heave—he gagged on it, his lungs clenched. "Sam. What the—what the fuck kind of question is _that?"_ Dean stuttered, spit…he dragged the back of his hand over his mouth, hard. He felt his lips give way to the pressure, drag over his teeth and that…clone, the fake, watched the movement with avid eyes, a smile firmly in place and it did nothing to warm up the tiger-eye chips his eyes were now. He jerked away, out of Sam's space.

"Are you—the fuck—that was. We didn't—" His voice rose and fell and words vomited out but nothing came together so he had to keep talking because soon, something, some words would fall out and make some damn sense—"We didn't know, it was just…" He came to a stop and swallowed. Dry click of his throat making him wince and Sam smile wider. "…an accident."

"And that was just a question. I think I got my answer." Sam dropped the towel and dressed. He threw a jacket on. Winked as he grubbed a couple of condoms out of his bag and shoved them in his pocket. Strolled out of the room like he owned the place—the planet.

Dean didn't move, didn't even flinch when he heard the Impala's engine turn over—he let loose a breath that had frozen in his chest.

Fuck. He needed to talk to somebody about Sam.

2-23-2014

 


End file.
